LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA. 10 where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, And think of me! Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juce,— And think of me ! Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth, And think of me! Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth And think of me! × Vill, - heve might have hem "the origin of And think of me! Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And think of me! Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills, And think of me! Go where a cook must always be a currier, And think of me! жу ері-Джина. 1 grams. But I didn't ve this Till now! Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me! Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me! SIR JOHN BOWRING. O Bowring, man of many tongues, All kinds of gabs he talks, I wis, But far more Polly-glottish! No grammar too abstruse he meets However dark and verby, He gossips Greek about the streets, Strange tongues whate'er you do them call, To tell you what's o'clock in all The dialects of Babel. Take him on 'Change; try Portuguese, Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese, TO MR. M'ADAM. "Let us take to the road!"-Beggar's Opera. ADAM, hail! M Hail, Roadian ! hail, Collossus ! who dost stand To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going,- Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible, Thou northern light, amid those heavy men! Dispenser of coagulated good! Distributor of granite and of food! Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone Thy first great trial in this mighty town That gentle hill which goeth Down from "the County" to the Palace gate, And, like, a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural Society, The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, And past the Athenaeum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr Hessey's. So well, that paviours threw their rammers by, Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,— Upon the stones-ah! truly watchman-like, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ;— Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach,— Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers. Who shall dispute thy name! Insculpt in stone in every street, We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame ! Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old,-that rare old man,- (History says so,) Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Besides the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only ;-mighty Mac! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack, Thou hast observed the highways in the sky! And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Which, like thy fame, "from granite basins burst, That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe;- - and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,— Cadell's a wayward wight! Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the town, — And published, like a Lilliput Unknown! "Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt, (One whole edition's out,) And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em ;— "Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair,”— (Blair is a Scottish name,) What are they, but thy own good roads, M‘Adam? O! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men when thou shalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry, That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone, Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone! Of a right ancient line thou comest,-through Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise! But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne'er Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, |